


Never Let You Down II

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:44:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Let You Down II

XXIV.

It takes what feels like forever for the two of them to make it up the stairs. Castiel has to place both feet carefully on one step and pause for a breath before attempting the next and Dean’s need to find something to wrench into pieces is only getting worse.

By the time they get to the top, he’s pretty much committed himself to storming the gates of Hell single-handed and dropping any and all damned souls who get in his way.

At the top, they pause for Castiel to get his breath back and for Dean to try and force his thoughts away from planning his bloody revenge-filled return trip to the nether world. He’s so distracted with this that he nearly shouts when Castiel’s cold fingers touch his chin. ‘What!’

Castiel frowns, then touches Dean’s temple, tapping gently.

‘Nothin’. Forget it. C’mon – lets get you to bed.’

Since he and Sam are in the only two spare rooms and the panic room is a fine bed for someone healthy but not for someone in Castiel’s state, his bed is the only option. There are enough spare blankets and pillows around for him to cobble together a bed for himself on the floor. Castiel will need all the space he can get.

Dean lets Castiel sink down on the edge of his bed and turns back to shut the door and turn on the light. The blinds are already down; he’s lazy about raising them since he’s up before the sun reaches this far back on the house.

When he turns back to the bed, Castiel looks like a broken doll thrown down, hands on the edge of the mattress, head down, spine bowed, rough blanket pooled around his hips, and his heart clenches so hard he thinks he won’t be able to breathe.

Before he can plan out something more adult to do, he goes back to the bed and kneels down in front of Cas.

‘Are you okay? Are – _will_ you be okay?’

He sounds like a kid begging for reassurance and if he could snatch the words back out of the air, he would because the last thing in the world Cas should have to deal with right now is him being all needy.

Castiel looks at him for a long minute, expression unreadable, and then nods slowly. He reaches out and touches Dean’s cheek, his fingers cold. Dean covers Castiel’s hand with his own and tries to feel reassured.

It doesn’t work really well: he’s never been good at telling himself that things are okay when they’re obviously shit.

‘Okay, then, lets get you into bed.’ He tries to muster up cheerful, tries to imagine himself as some kind of helpful, happy person who thrives on this sort of challenge – and fails miserably. He wants to crawl into the bed himself and not come out for a week, wants to go gas up the Impala and head out looking for the first demon he can find. He reaches past Cas to tug down the sheets and blankets – the last couple of nights have been chilly – and then realises there’s a further problem.

Dean always runs hot; he usually only bothers leaving his boxers on at night and not even that if Sam’s not there. He’s got nothing that even approaches something that could keep Cas warm for the night. _Shit._

He turns around and looks at his room in desperation, as if a pile of warm clothes will simply appear on the dresser or the windowsill. He hears a cough behind him, then feels a tap on the small of his back. Castiel looks up at him, tilts his head and spreads his hands in an obvious question.

‘Uh – you need something to sleep in.’

Castiel looks down at himself for a minute, then shrugs and tugs at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt.

‘What?’

Castiel rolls his eyes – something Dean would have bet money he would never see – and tugs again on the shirt.

‘You do _not_ want this shirt. Trust me.’

Castiel points past Dean at the dresser, then touches his shirt again.

‘Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?’

Castiel nods.

‘Okay.’ Dean shrugs and goes to the dresser. He fumbles through the shirts in the drawer, finds a grey one with no visible holes that he’s pretty sure has been washed recently, and drags it out. When he turns back, Castiel is fumbling at his belt, his fingers awkward, and Dean sees him bite his lip. ‘Here...’

He tosses the shirt onto the bed beside Cas and helps him back to his feet. He holds Castiel’s shoulders for a second until he’s sure the smaller man can stand on his own, then flicks open his belt buckle and undoes the buttons and zip of the trousers. As he draws down the zipper and sees the faded boxers beneath, Dean’s hands begin to shake and he can’t move.

This should be different.

This should be better.

 _He_ should be better.

Castiel shouldn’t have to put up with this shit when he’s hurt and Dean should man up and fucking _fix_ things because that’s what he _does_ and he should not be standing here shaking because Cas is _hurt_ and he needs to _do_ something about that and if he doesn’t start moving soon then Cas is going to figure out something is wrong and what the hell is Dean going to do then and Christ why won’t his hands move it isn’t like this is some big romantic evening he’s trying to get the guy in bed because he fucked that, too, and why the _fuck_ did he just think that and oh God--

Castiel’s hands cover Dean’s gently and draw them away from his hips. Dean closes his eyes, cursing himself.

When he opens his eyes again, Castiel has somehow slithered out of the trousers which are in a heap around his pale ankles and is digging his way through the folds of the t-shirt which was big on Dean and looks enormous on him. When Castiel finally finds his way through the collar and sleeves, the thing hangs on him in folds and Dean has to resist the impulse to start laughing because he’s sure he won’t be able to stop.

Castiel picks his feet out of his pants and slides backwards on the bed, leaning back on the pillows, and letting out a silent breath. He closes his eyes and lets his head sink back against the pillow for a minute. The bruise over his ribs is standing out darker and more swollen every minute and Dean clenches his fists hard to resist the impulse to smooth his hand over it. He can’t make the pain go away, can’t fix any of the bruises or cuts or scratches or scrapes and what’s the point of making Cas feel them more?

Dean swallows hard and picks up the trousers, shaking them out and tossing them over the back of the rocking chair in the corner. Castiel’s shirt and jacket are downstairs and he was prepared to toss ‘em in the trash but he’s willing to bet that Sammy’s got at least the shirt in the washer already just to see if it can be saved. ‘You okay? Need anything?’

Castiel shakes his head, looking up at Dean.

Dean pulls the covers over him and stands for a minute looking down at him. He can’t think what to say, so he repeats himself: ‘You okay?’

Castiel nods.

‘Right.’ Dean turns to leave, planning to dig himself bedding out of the closet in the hallway, and feels Cas catch his wrist. ‘What?’

Castiel tilts his head, questioning, and pats the bed beside him.

‘Cas, you’re hurt – I’ll sleep on the floor; it’s no big deal--’

Another pat.

‘C’mon, man, you can’t--’

Another pat.

Dean sighs, scratches the back of his head. He looks away at the blinded window for a minute. He rubs his fingers through his hair again, rubbing at the base of his skull. ‘Jesus, Cas...I’m about as fucked up as you can get.’

He hears his own voice with a faint sense of surprise: had he meant to say any of that? And now he can’t seem to stop himself.

‘Why the hell do you want to bother? I mean...okay, you want me to fight for God, I get it, but this is a hell of a recruitment technique you got going. And...I’m not worth it, man – really, I’m not. Whatever you want me for...you can get it somewhere else. Warrior for God -- quick fuck -- whatever it is.’

The words taste unexpectedly sour in his mouth and he has to swallow hard against something that feels suspiciously like disappointment. Hey, if anyone’s gonna tip over this apple cart, it’s gonna be him. Cas sure as hell won’t see the light -- the angel could practically give lessons in not noticing the obvious. ‘You can get it from someone else, Castiel -- I promise you.’

He feels something tapping impatiently at his wrist and looks down to see Castiel frowning at him and pointing imperiously at the trousers Dean has just put on the chair. Dean doesn’t have the energy to argue, just grabs the damned things and tosses them on the bed. ‘Knock yourself out.’

He goes out into the hall, yanks the closet door open, and wrestles down an armful of random, assorted bedding. He’s slept in the driver’s seat of the Impala, on motel floors, and in hospital chairs; he can sleep on _anything._ He goes back into his bedroom with the armful of stuff, kicking the door closed and studiously ignoring the bed, and dumps it all on the floor. Three pillows, a quilt, two blankets, and what looks like a single fitted sheet.

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Castiel is trying to get his attention, waving at him, but he pretends he can’t see. Instead, he focuses on arranging the pillows into something like a bolster, draping a blanket over the lot, then folding up the other blanket to act as a pillow and leaving the quilt to be a cover. He hears something jingle by the bedside, but figures it’s the belt buckle on the hardwood floor and turns his back, intending to shuck off his jeans and get under the quilt as fast as he can. He’s just undone the top button when something hard hits the back of his shoulder. ‘Hey!’

He whips around in time to see Cas flick a dime at him. ‘What the fuck, man!’ He whacks the coin out of the air and hears it rattle against the floorboards. Castiel glares and tosses another coin at him. ‘Stop it!’ A fourth coin dings off his collarbone. ‘Ow!’ A fifth, off his forehead. ‘Cas!’

Castiel clenches his hand around the rest of the pocketful of change Dean had dumped on his nightstand a few days before and pats the bed beside him.

‘Cas--’

Castiel scowls and lines up a quarter on his thumb.

‘C’mon, man, y’don’t want--’ The coin bounces off his arm. ‘Jesus! Okay! What!’ Dean stalks across the room and sits on the very edge of the bed. ‘Here. I’m sitting. Happy now?’

Castiel smiles at him, nods, and drops the change on the side table. He picks up some small object and holds it out to Dean on his flattened palm.

‘What...’ Dean stares from the thing to Cas and back again. Castiel nods at him and holds up his hand as if encouraging Dean to take it. ‘Cas...I...’ Dean can feel his throat closing, panic climbing up his spine from the inside.

He reaches to take the thing off Castiel’s palm and sees the welts around the smaller man’s wrist, painful raised lines where something has bitten closely into the skin without breaking it.

You had work to get the balance that close: there were hours of pain in those marks.

Without even thinking about it, Dean grabs Cas, sending the stupid chapstick that only a guaranteed card-carrying _idiot_ would buy for a present flying, hauling Cas close regardless of sheets, blankets, or shirt, burying his face in the hollow of Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel doesn’t seem disturbed by this, doesn’t push him away, or try to make him loosen his grip. Instead, Dean can feel Castiel’s hands settling at the small of his back as if this is something they do every day: Dean panicking and grabbing Cas to try and keep himself from freaking out. Castiel’s chin rests on the top of his head and he can smell antiseptic, blood, sweat, laundry soap, and faint sweetness.

‘Fuck...’ He burrows further against Castiel’s shoulder, closing his eyes. ‘Cas...don’t...just...don’t fucking do that to me, okay? Showing up out of nowhere beat to shit...don’t do that.’

It’s a stupid thing to say and he knows it. It isn’t a promise either of them can make and hope to keep. Still, he feels Castiel nod against the top of his skull. ‘When are you gonna get your voice back?’

Castiel shrugs and Dean pulls back far enough to see him hold up a finger, shrug again, then hold up two, three.

‘Days...weeks?’

He shrugs again.

‘Great. Fuckin’ awesome.’ Dean drops his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder again, suddenly too exhausted to worry about how weird this is. He feels Castiel’s hand on his hair, brushing gently from forehead to nape. ‘I...you...you should get some sleep. Let that human body of yours catch up.’

Castiel frowns at him again and pats the bed beside him.

Dean looks at the crumpled blanket for a minute and shakes his head. ‘Cas...I...can’t. I...’ He holds up his hands, flattens them in the air between them, and watches them tremble. ‘I’m...I’m all fucked up. I can’t do it.’

Castiel watches him for a moment, then takes Dean’s hands, folds them together, and wraps his own around them. He looks up at Dean, his eyes clear and steady, a deep blue.

‘I...’ Dean stops, biting the inside of his lip hard.

All he can think about is the vast fuck-up of the night when he tried to start something he couldn’t finish.

What if that happens again?

What if he’s no good?

What if Cas decides that’s enough and dumps his sorry ass back on the ground?

What if the whole damned thing’s a fuck-up?

What if Sam was right and Cas _has_ seen better than him in the millennia he’s watched earth?

What if he hurts Cas?

Castiel’s fingers touch his chin and Dean snaps back to the present. Castiel looks at him and shakes his head slowly, then pats the bed again, and, carefully, urges Dean down onto the mattress beside him.

Dean lies down awkwardly, aware that every muscle in his body, from toes to throat, is tense. He feels an idiot, lying on his own bed barefoot, top button of his jeans undone, t-shirt sweaty and bloodstained, staring at this man he would really like to impress way more than he should and unable to do a damned thing about it.

Castiel looks at the switch by the door and the light obediently turns itself off. Dean feels the bed shift as Castiel wriggles down under the covers and lifts them to cover him, too. He doesn’t know what to do, suddenly reduced to being an abjectly embarrassed pre-teen with no idea where to go next.

He feels a faint puff of breath on his shoulder, as though Castiel is, against all odds, _laughing_ at him. Then Castiel wraps himself around Dean, cuddling against him as if Dean is the biggest hot water bottle in the world. It takes him a few moments to find a comfortable place for his head against Dean’s shoulder and by the time he does, Dean is pretty sure his heart isn’t simply going to ricochet out of his chest.

He’s not good at this – he’s _never_ been good at this – he’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than a month or two and that is not a good track record.

Sex.

He’s good at sex or, he grouses at himself, he _used_ to be good at sex before his head got terminally fucked up and it and his body don’t agree on anything anymore.

Now he can’t even fall back on the one thing he’s fucking good at and he is just going to fuck this up and--

Castiel’s hand covers his mouth lightly, as if the man can somehow hear the internal conversation.

‘I...I don’t want to hurt you,’ Dean mutters. The words taste bitter and he swallows hard. Through all the shit that's ever gone down around him, he has always _always_ been able to depend on himself. He tells his body to do something - it does it. He tells his head to get in the game - it does. And now he can't even do that.

Castiel shakes his head firmly against Dean’s shoulder and wraps himself closer, locking his knees around one of Dean’s legs.

‘No, Cas, really...I...I don’t think...I can’t...’

The hand taps his lips again.

‘I...’

Another tap.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek hard and tries for insouciance: ‘Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Because this is never going to work out well.

Castiel’s fingers stroke his mouth for a minute then, bewilderingly, pat his cheek, and slide down to his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "When I'm Gone," 3 Doors Down, _Away from the Sun._


End file.
